


Abandon

by bunnyangel



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29838243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnyangel/pseuds/bunnyangel
Summary: Buck wakes up in the hospital and proceeds to have a worse time.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley & Firehouse 118 Crew, Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 92
Collections: 9-1-1 Tales, Flowers For Your Grave





	Abandon

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, [Marcia Elena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marciaelena/pseuds/Marcia%20Elena).

He's...alone.

He knows this before he even pries his eyes open to confirm it. The sterile hospital air is awful, like the flat edge of a crisp sheet of paper dragging down the dry expanse of his throat. He swallows convulsively to stem the cough that wants to be expelled, because he knows from experience that if he starts, he probably won't stop.

But if the air is awful, it's at least familiar in the way a man who frequents the hospital far too often can find. It's the lesser, soul-crushing evil to the jarring emptiness of the room--with no worried, exhausted captains or partners or coworkers, no overbearing sister-mom and no cheerful preteens hanging around. No one.

He's _alone_.

There's a frightening heaviness in his limbs that speaks of heavy narcotics or lengthy unconsciousness and he can also feel, in the precise way that there's _no_ feeling, that his injuries have to be pretty bad; there's a whole expanse of his torso that does not belong, a no man's land of _nothing_ and _nowhere_ and _not attached_ and _come back later, no one's here_.

He squints, trying to identify the multiple, mostly drained bags hanging next to his bed, but can't get past the blurriness to read the tiny text. His toes and fingers are functioning, at least.

He should be more alarmed--he _would_ be more alarmed, if everything weren't ever so slightly fuzzy at the edges. Still, there's something very obviously wrong. Because he's alone.

The low steady beep of machinery is interspersed by the pitter patter of rain on the window and the occasional rumble of thunder, but there are no sounds beyond the closed door. The room feels stagnant, the air stale like it's been a while since anyone's been in here. He fumbles for the call button on the bed rail as old insecurities flare, producing a lump in his throat that has nothing to do with dryness, and a pang in his chest that has nothing to do with pain.

He stares at the too-white ceiling, trying to remember what landed him in the hospital this time; wonders what circumstances would lead to him waking up so horribly alone. It takes him a while to notice that no one is coming.

He squints at the call button, but it's clearly lit. He presses it again.

"H-hello?" His voice is a dry rasp, barely heard over the machinery. The button stays lit, and the speaker next to it stays silent.

He frowns over at the door, but the effort to pull himself upright leaves him a little bit breathless and a lot lightheaded, so he gives up the idea of walking for the moment. His fingers work steadily down the coiled cord tucked under his sheets until he reaches the phone handset. No one picks up any of the hospital extensions, and he slumps, baffled.

He's really, truly alone. What the fuck?

He dials 9-1-1. The unease turns into full-blown anxiety when he gets a busy circuit message. He stares at the handset.

He's alone, a patient possibly abandoned in a hospital, and something's happened that's catastrophic enough to take down the emergency operator system.

His brow furrows because the two scenarios together just don't seem...possible. Hospitals should be veritable hubs of activity in times like these. His eyes dart between the still lit call button and the still closed door. He strains to listen, but there's still just silence beyond it.

Okay, so he's alone, but he's fine. He's _not_ alone. He's got the team. It takes him a second to decide who to call and remember the number.

The steady beeping of his heart monitor slowly ramps up as number after number is met with the ominous notification of an overloaded mobile network.

He thinks for a moment, handset creaking under his fingers, before he dials the station. There's a landline there. If anything, it should be more reliable, right?

It rings.

And rings and rings and rings before the mailbox picks up.

With a frustrated yank, he tears the sensors for his heart monitor out. The shrill trilling cuts out abruptly and he glares at it briefly before focusing again.

He's not alone.

He can't be alone.

He dials again.

And again.

He's at a loss by the time he hangs up a fourth time, because what the hell is going on?

"Hello?!" He calls as loud as he can, which still ends up more as a squeak.

He doesn't even have water, for crying out loud.

He jumps when the phone rings, nearly dropping it on the ground. The jangle is explosively loud, cutting through the staleness and reverberating through the air.

"H-hello?" He says breathlessly.

_"Evan! Oh my god, Evan! Are you alright??"_

It's a relief to hear Maddie's voice, even if the teary way in which she says his name yanks higher the dread that's been steadily rising.

Maddie's okay. He's not alone. It's fine.

He opens his mouth, but fails to decide whether to answer her or ask questions. The who-what-why is on the tip of his tongue when a slam against his room door nearly startles him out of bed. He hisses as the phone slips. He fumbles for it as he stares at the door that's now juddering against multiple impacts. Heart thumping rapidly in his throat, he holds it shakily up to his ear again.

"What--what's going on, Maddie?"

_"Buck?!"_ Bobby's firm voice is a balm on shattering nerves. " _Get out of bed right now! Get up and go lock yourself in the bathroom. Stay away from the dead and don't let them touch you!_ "

"Bobby, what--"

Buck shouts in alarm as the door bursts open and---what the fuck??? The crowd that stumbles into his room is straight out of nightmare. Glimpses of torn, bloody flesh. Milky-white eyes. Hospital attire stained red. Grotesquely gaping mouths with dark stained teeth. Fingers outstretched, reaching, reaching for him--

He rolls out of bed, barely preventing himself from face-planting with arms that shake with terrifying weakness. He yanks the IV needle free and pushes with jellified legs, scrambling for the safety of the bathroom just as the first set of bloody hands rounds the bed. He slams it behind him just in time to feel the first impact from the other side. The world is a wavy, muted white as he collapses to the linoleum.

Fuuuuck it hurts like a motherfucker. He drags himself onto the flat of his back and lays gasping, one arm bleeding steadily and the other wrapped around his angry torso. Oblique muscles cry in protest as he reaches up shakily to press the lock. The knob is rounded and not a lever so he's pretty sure this one, at least, can't be accidentally opened. Mostly sure. Maybe they're smart zombies.

He swallows, taking slower, deeper breaths around the throbbing mass of his midsection as the door shudders against his arm.

It's a tiny bit terrifying, he's not afraid to admit to himself, the sound of fingernails scratching on the door. Definitely another checked box for nightmares.

And then he jerks away, screaming as something brushes against his arm.

Horrified, he stares at the fingers now grasping for him from underneath the door, leaving bloody streaks in their wake.

"Okay," he mutters hoarsely over his painfully pounding heart. "You're okay. You're not in danger. It's just a thousand times creepier than a minute ago."

His head drops back to the floor and he drifts for a little bit, closing gritty, burning eyes and waits for the pain to ease. The ascent to the sink for water is another kind of hell, but it's all worth it when it hits the shriveled expanse of his throat. The man in the mirror looks terrible, which isn't entirely unexpected, but it's been a while since he's looked so thin. The growth on his face is at least several days old. There are deep shadows under his eyes and a sallowness to his skin, and his hair is all kinds of greasy.

He goes to peel off his hospital gown to examine his bandages, but the moment he raises his arms his entire chest twinges in warning. He exhales slowly and lowers them. Okay, maybe too much excitement already. He drops carefully back to lean against the bathtub and closes his eyes. He'll deal with it later.

He's...bleeding, profusely.

He's not sure what happened for him to get to this point.

He's in what feels like full gear.

He's alone.

Did he mention he's bleeding?

A shadow looms over him, blocking the sun. He blinks until his vision adjusts and he can make out the contours of Eddie's face, Eddie's mouth, moving without sound. He tracks the worry in those frown lines, the fear in those eyes, and realizes belatedly that it's for him.

He tenses when Eddie moves downwards, flinching against the influx of sun again. He's going to go for it. The thought has Buck oddly panicking and he reaches up to grab for him.

"Don't. Don't. Don't." The litany that comes out of his mouth suddenly makes sense as actual words. With the influx of sound he can hear sirens and screaming and shouting.

"Buck, I have to. Just let me--"

He cries out as agony tears through him, pulling everything into sharp, overexposed focus.

"Eddie..." He doesn't know what he's asking for, only grips the arms applying pressure, unsure if he wants them to press harder or pull away.

"I know, I know. We have to stop the bleeding. You're fine. I know it hurts. We'll get you out soon."

The words do nothing to ease the seeping pain and--

"Hey, hey," Eddie soothes. "Look at me. Just breathe. Look at me, Buck."

His eyes feel distinctly uncooperative, and it's a struggle to get them to move where he wants them to instead of roll up underneath the protective sheath of his eyelids.

"That's good. Look at me, Buck. Breathe with me."

Together they inhale, hold, and exhale. An indefinite and almost hypnotic pattern, and it cancels out the warm saturation spreading across his skin.

"What--what happened?" He asks, too loud, blinking awake to darkness.

Tears immediately spring to his eyes, because Eddie's not here. No one is, and those are definitely dead people pounding against his door wanting to get inside to probably eat him. The dream--memory?-- tells him that he's got at least two puncture wounds, but doesn't help him recall what the fuck happened on that call or why he was _abandoned_ to die alone in this place.

His mid-section is still a sullen, throbbing mass of _no, thank you_ and _get the fuck out of here_. His arm is still somewhat damp, and he can't really tell if it's still an active bleed or not. And now he's sitting in pitch dark, in a bathroom, of all places, with a stiff neck that he doesn't even have the energy to pop. By the way his luck is going, there's possibly an electrical malfunction and a generator fire in a basement somewhere that will eventually consume the entire building with him in it.

The snort he barely suppresses is only half hysterical.

He honestly doesn't know which is creepier.

Dark bathroom. Possibly haunted.

Zombies.

Okay, maybe it's a no brainer.

He stifles a giggle. No brainer, get it?

He needs to get a grip. He's a mostly grown man--a firefighter, for crying out loud. He does the rescuing, he doesn't wait for it. But the thought of facing those--those _things_ outside alone--

He's okay. He's not alone in this crazy. The team is still out there, even if they left him here. He knows, he _hopes_ that they're not coming. Because hospitals are always the worst hit in movies, right? There's probably a horde outside.

Dread hooks icy fingers into his brain, because if the hospital is abandoned, and city services are overwhelmed--

No. Stop. He's okay. The team is at the station. This is verifiable-- _verified_ fact and it does no good to speculate on anything else. They sounded alright. They need to stay that way. They all have kids. Maddie is pregnant.

But...the question is a niggling little worm. It burrows into his brain and refuses to let him be. He's alone here at the hospital. _Why_ was he left alone in the hospital? He smothers the little persistent feeling of abandonment--they would _never_ abandon him if they could help it...probably--and takes stock of himself again.

Definitely minor loss of muscle mass. Dehydration, most likely. He hadn't had a catheter or a feeding tube, which would have been a whole other world of pain. He huffs, regretting the decision to not rip off the bandages, so to speak, when there was still power.

God, he's lucky. The vulnerability of being injured and unconscious while the world went crazy and ravenous absolutely chills him. He can't quite stop shaking after that thought, so lightheaded with it that he just concentrates on the expansion and contraction of his very much alive and functioning lungs in his very much alive and functioning body.

By the time he's aware of his surroundings again, the fumbling and pounding against the door has stopped.

Whatever the case, he's here now and he can't rely on anyone coming for him--hopes, _hopes_ they don't come for him. He has to do something. He can't just sit here in this cramped little room and wait to die. Can zombies see in the dark? Which...doesn't really matter since he definitely can't. No...he'll have to wait till morning. Maybe another day, even, to assess the situation.

He doesn't mean to fall asleep, but everything catches up with him and before he knows it he's staring at a dim sliver of light from beneath the door. Hope flares and dies just as quick when a shadow passes slowly by it. Ever so slowly, he shifts so that he can peer underneath, careful of the bloodstains. The throbbing starts up in earnest and he has to take another moment to breathe through it before he can process what he's seeing.

There are two sets of feet in his direct line of sight. He tenses when a third shuffles by, surprising the shit out of him. His jaw aches with the effort to stifle a groan. Exhaling shakily, he forces himself to relax his diaphragm, and then pushes upright again. Fuck, it hurts.

Hope is a dim, sputtering flame. It's suicide. He can probably get past those three. Maybe. Uncertain at best with the way his chest twinges at just the thought. Beyond that, though, is an unknown number of--he blinks, sucking in air, because is that--

It is.

The siren of a fire truck, blaring its horn somewhere outside. His heart lifts even as his stomach plummets. The team is here. They’re trying to save him?

God, he hopes not.

God, he hopes so.

The moaning grows pitched and fevered outside his door. There's a shatter of glass. He plasters himself to the ground again and watches those feet shuffle out of sight.

It's an agonizing wait, breath held as he listens.

And then--

He frowns, because the siren outside is fading, like it's drawing away.

No. No, they can't just _leave_ him here. He has to get out. He has to go.

He struggles to his feet and has to hunch over, sucking in uneven, shallow breaths and leaning against the door when vertigo takes his name and tries to kick him back down. He blinks the tears out of his eyes as he stares down at the doorknob, psyching himself up. He has to get out of here. He has to meet them halfway. He can't stay here. He shudders.

He _can't_ stay here.

He grips the doorknob, quietly unlocks it, takes a few more deep breaths and then freezes when there's more shattering glass outside, followed by a thud. A loud one. Followed by two more.

Shuffling moans. More thuds.

And then--

His brow wrinkles, because that sounds like--a door closing, and--

He jerks back when there's a soft knock on his door and he stares because--what?

"Buck?" Comes the soft inquiry.

His eyes widen and his heart thuds painfully against his rib cage.

"Eddie?" He whispers. More tears spring to his eyes.

The doorknob turns beneath his hand and he steps even further back, fear ratcheting up. If this is a dream--if the zombies are smart---

The door is suddenly flung open and he flinches away from the sudden influx of light.

Silence.

"Buck." Bobby's voice. "Are you alright?"

He lowers his arms and blinks at them owlishly, swaying.

They're standing strangely far from him, Halligans raised and fully decked out in gear like there's a fire and a rescue and they're here to carry it out--carry _him_ out. It's the best goddamn sight of his life. The relief that crashes into him is so heady he staggers. He takes a shuddering breath. "Better now, Cap," he says, hoarsely.

And oddly enough, that makes the distance between them crumble and he's being hugged--gently--to within an inch of his life. He sags into Eddie, laughing wetly and squeezing tight, because he feels like he's _been_ hanging onto his life by inches.

"Eddie," he murmurs. He's crying and he doesn't care because he's just so _relieved_.

"Had us a little worried there, Buck," Chim says quietly from over Eddie's shoulder.

"We gotta go!" Comes a hiss from across the room. Hen. Hen's here too. The room door is starting to thud in that familiar way again but he doesn't have the energy to be afraid. He's fine. His team is here and he's fine. Eddie is here and he's fine.

Hen and Chim roll his hospital bed over to block the door, then flank them back towards the window.

He blinks at the large rock sitting randomly in the middle of his floor, looks past it to the ladder still extended just outside and doesn't protest when he's practically carried out over the shattered glass and grisly viscera. A fresh lump forms in his throat, because they had known exactly where he was and came through to get him. In the distance, the siren of what's apparently another truck or engine is still going. Bait, he realizes with a grin.

He flattens onto the rungs as the rest of his team tumbles out after him, squeezing his eyes shut as the aerial ladder dips and bounces precariously under the weight of five people. The truck starts moving before the last person even jumps on. He clings with what little strength he has, shaking with tension, while the ladder slowly retracts and the truck picks up speed.

He can't muster any worry, though, because they came for him.

He hadn't been left behind.

He's not alone.


End file.
